


office 51

by plutoandpersephone



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Mob, Forbidden Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/pseuds/plutoandpersephone
Summary: Mob AU. Hank and Connor are members of rival gangs.(Originally posted as a thread on Twitter.)





	office 51

Hank Anderson acts as the right hand man and muscle for the infamous mob boss J. Fowler. Anderson is well known - and rightly feared - for his expertise with weaponry. 

Connor Stern is a member of Jericho, a gang led by the calculated Markus Manfred. A sweet and pretty face, but a with a reputation for the cruellest mouth and sharpest mind in the business.

The two gangs have been in disputes over territory for a while, although relations have been mostly steady. Until Jericho start using their knowledge of cyber infrastructure to find information about members of Fowler’s gang, about their workings, to step on their toes. Something has to be done. 

Fowler calls a meeting with Markus, on neutral ground. Both bosses bring their finest with them as protection and intimidation. 

The room is in the basement of a bar, low lit, either gang sitting on one side of a long table. Hank and Connor’s eyes meet in the low light. Connor's chest, trained to be cold, unfeeling, clenches tight beneath the clear, blue gaze of Hank’s eyes. He keeps his face entirely impassive, but his heart is beating in his throat like a caged bird. 

Hank has never met any of Jericho’s members and initially he’s surprised at how young they all are. But that shock dies as soon as he sees the face of the man standing to the left of Markus. Beautiful and icy, gold-brown eyes staring directly at Hank. Hank tries to keep his mind on the meeting, the discussion of territory, the way Markus leans back in his chair as Fowler slams a hand down on the table. But he can’t stop his gaze from wandering to those brown eyes. 

In his pockets, he balls his hands into fists. 

When the meeting is over - and barely productive - the gangs go their separate ways. As Connor leaves, he watches the huge man behind Fowler, takes in the slope of his shoulders. He wonders what his hands look like. Square palms, thick fingers. 

As soon as Connor returns to their headquarters, he logs in to their systems, finely tuned to keep tabs on everyone and anyone. He’s determined to find out about that man of Fowler’s, although adrenaline flows his body at the very thought of it. He knows he’s doing wrong. 

“What’re you doing, Stern?” Simon - Markus’ right hand man and rumoured sweetheart - asks him. He doesn’t look suspicious, although Connor suspects he probably should be.

“Just going to check in on Fowler’s men. Make sure they’re where they should be.” 

Simon nods and goes. 

It doesn’t take Connor long to find him. They have information about Fowler’s crew from police records, credit card information, witness statements. And there - Hank Anderson. Putting a name to the face makes Connor’s stomach flip. He’s worried but, god. He needs to know more. Even with Jericho’s connections, Fowler’s gang have their protections in place too. Connor looks for an address, a telephone number, anything. He imagines sending Hank a politely worded email. “Our eyes met over the meeting of two feared mob bosses.” Yeah. Stupid. 

He stops searching after a little while. He looks at a few pictures of the man, those incredibly clear eyes, that handsome face that Connor can’t stop thinking about. They’re mostly candids captured by the feds and he has a calm, sad exterior that Connor feels drawn towards. 

Hank doesn’t have the technological skills that Connor does, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do his research. He’s got a lot of contacts, inside the gang and out - benefits of a lifetime in the business. It doesn’t take him long to get a name. Connor Stern. He doesn’t have any pictures, but he can imagine well enough. That pretty face, those dark eyelashes. Narrow hips in impeccably tailored trousers. The way his gaze didn’t - couldn’t? - leave Hank’s face. 

It doesn’t take Hank long to get an address either. Not a home address, no one’s that stupid. But he gets the name of a restaurant in Belle Isle, famously neutral territory for their two gangs. Someone else has control there. 

Hank knows how fucking stupid it is to go looking for this man. It’s suicide. Fraternisation with a rival is just asking for trouble of the highest order within his own organisation. But he can’t help himself. He can’t stop thinking about the man - Connor - and lying in bed at night, a part of him is certain that Connor is somewhere on the other side of the city, thinking about him too. 

So he excuses himself from business proceedings for a few days and takes the train to Belle Isle. 

The restaurant is familiar to Hank. He’s never been here before, but he knows the type, mediocre food and terrible service - all serving as a cover for whatever illicit activity is bubbling beneath the surface. He guesses gambling, by the look of the clientele. 

A man greets him at the door. He has dark, suspicious eyes and a wide scar across the bridge of his nose. 

“Can I help you?” He asks, looking Hank up and down. 

Hank has done his best to look powerful but neutral, unthreatening but in charge. He knows he does a good job of it. “I’m here to see Mr Stern. I have an appointment.”

“You do?” The man narrows his eyes. “Mr Stern has no appointments tonight.”

“He’s expecting me.” Hank doesn’t feel nervous. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s used his confidence and charm to get himself places. 

“Name?” He asks.

“Henry Anderson.” A common pseudonym of his and sure to get him caught out if anyone from his side were to come looking. But there are plenty of stories he can spin to explain his presence here and besides, he hasn’t done anything wrong. Not yet. 

The man nods, gaze still thick with suspicion. “Fine. Wait there. Can’t promise anything.”

Hank smiles, all teeth and cold charm. “I’m sure you’ll try your best.”

He disappears into a door to his right. Hank stands in the dim, reddish light, heart pounding. 

The man returns ten minutes later. “Mr Stern says he’ll see you.”

Hank follows him down a narrow corridor and down a flight of stairs. He’d been right about the real purpose of this place, they pass through a busy, low ceilinged room filled with people drinking and playing cards. They go through a pair of double doors and into a back office, the kind of room that makes Hank feel like he’s having a meeting on the inside of a safe. 

There’s a desk and two chairs and not much else. A young man with dark hair.

It’s not Connor, that’s for sure. 

The man looks at him with eyes so blue they’re almost white. He has the same features as Connor, the same dark hair. He’s a little wider in the face than Hank remembers Connor, and god knows he’s spent the past weeks remembering him in vivid detail. He gives Hank a close lipped grin, curling one side of his mouth.

“You can leave us now, thank you, Reed.” 

The door clicks shut behind him. 

“So. Hank Anderson is it?” He asks, leaning back in his chair. Hank feels like he’s in the presence of a particularly venomous snake. Luckily, Hank’s chopped the heads off many snakes before now.

“Henry, actually.” He takes a seat, proffered by a wave of his long, white fingers. 

“Come now. I know it’s Hank.” The man extends his hand. “My name is Niles Stern. You’re looking for my brother, aren’t you?” 

Hank nods. 

“My brother is a dangerous man, Hank. Involved with a lot more dangerous men. You should take care.”

Hank shrugs. “I know what I’m getting myself involved in.”

Niles tilts his head. “That might be the case. All the same...” The end of his sentence hangs heavily in the air. “You’re in luck. My brother is looking for you too.”

In spite of himself, Hank’s chest clenches. 

“Now, Hank. I don’t get myself involved in all this... rivalry. Mob wars. It’s all rather puerile.” Hank feels himself bristling at the admission, this dismissal of the place he’s put most of his life. “I can tell you where to find my brother. For a price.”

Luckily, Hank has money. He’s never been a man with many playthings or much of a materialistic streak - a few choice items here and there, good suits and watches. So it doesn’t take them long to negotiate a price and Hank leaves with a place, a time. A lead. 

The lead is a fundraising event in downtown Detroit: politicians and policemen and people to be paid off. Hank suggests to Fowler that it might be beneficial for one of their members to attend - it’s not exactly neutral ground, but it could be an opportunity to make new contacts. Fowler agrees and secures Hank an invitation with an easy twist of his hand in the upper echelons. 

The event is black tie and Hank dresses accordingly, tuxedo tailored to perfection, leather shoulder holster close to his body. A driver takes Hank to City Hall and drops him outside, alongside the procession of cars and limousines far flashier than his own. He’s had a look at a guest list - Connor’s name was not on it, but Hank supposes that there are a number of people here attending under fake names. The event is crowded already and Hank makes conversation with a few people he recognises, but his eyes are consistently tracking the crowd for one face in particular.

And then, there is he. Beneath the soft glow from the main hall’s chandelier - Connor. He’s resplendent in a tux made of bottle green velvet, perfectly pressed white shirt and matte black bow tie. Hank’s heart stops for a second - if he’d thought him beautiful back in that dingy basement, now is something else entirely. He’s making conversation with a young woman with bright red hair - not someone who Hank recognises, so he keeps his distance. Just for a while. Until she moves on and Connor is left, for the briefest moment, standing by himself.

Hank’s hand comes to rest on Connor’s shoulder. “Connor Stern?” Hank asks, low, conspiratorial. 

Connor whips around as though Hank had just pressed a gun to the small of his back.

But at the sight of Hank, his face softens instantly. Recognition. 

“Oh.” The sound is soft, those eyes round. “Hello.”

Hank, who has always known how to still people with a simple look, a single action, is stuck for what to do or what to say. It’s an incredibly arresting feeling and he’s acutely aware that this moment is going to eclipse everything that has ever come before it. 

It doesn’t take long for Connor to gather himself, and quickly regain the expression that Hank remembers from before - endlessly cool and collected. Hank wonders if beneath it, Connor’s heart is beating as fast as his own. 

“I didn’t know Fowler was sending anyone,” Connor says, his eyes roving the entirety of Hank’s body. He feels like he’s being devoured. Whole.

“I imagine there’s a lot you don’t know about Fowler.” Although the words are sharp, a grin plays across Hank’s face. Connor returns his smile, knowing, looking up at him from beneath his long eyelashes. 

“My brother said you were looking for me.”

“Funny thing that,” Hank takes a step closer, so close that they’re almost touching. “He said you were looking for me too.”

Hank’s positive that Connor’s face, pale and dotted with dark freckles, colours a little. He nods. “How did you find me?”

Hank shrugs. “You been doing this as long as I have, you know who to ask. Didn’t take long to find your brother and his incredibly legitimate establishment.”

Connor laughs and the sound is like music to Hank’s ears. Hank rests his hand at Connor’s elbow, now close enough that his thigh brushes against the velvet of Connor’s hip. The closeness is not out of place in the crowded room, but Hank can feel electricity spark between them. 

“I looked you up after that meeting.” Connor’s shoulders are stiff with the sudden contact. “And then, when Niles mentioned you’d been to his... restaurant, well. I wondered where you’d show up.”

Hank nods. “Here I am.”

The desire to grab Connor by his satin lapels and crush their mouths together is almost overwhelming. But Hank’s a clever man, and that would be a very stupid move. The wrong person even seeing him with Connor could begin to cause whispers, fractures. 

“We shouldn’t be seen together,” Connor says, words echoing Hank’s thoughts. But his body language says different, leaning in to Hank, his hands twitching. Desperate to touch, to grab hold. 

“No, we shouldn’t.” Hank stands his ground. “Shall we do something about that?”

Connor nods, his face impassive. Hank senses a whole labyrinthine mind working behind the cool brown of his eyes. “Wait here.”

So Hank does. He makes small talk with a few of the people around him, until Connor returns ten minutes later, approaching Hank and then slipping past him, as if heading for the bar. Hank’s worked enough short cons to know a sleight of hand, and he checks his pocket. A card reads: _Office 51. Second floor._

Hank gives it a few minutes and then heads in the direction of the hall’s offices. No one questions him. He walks with a quiet authority that has people certain he knows what he’s doing.

His heart beats far faster than his footsteps. 

All of the office doors in the main part of the building are locked, lights off inside. The corridors are dark and silent, the only sounds the laughter and music ringing from downstairs.

It doesn’t take him long to find office 51. The light is on and the door is ajar. And Connor. Standing by the tiny window. He’s shrugged off his jacket and Hank can see that he, too, has come prepared for more than champagne and small talk. A brown leather holster holds a smart, sharp revolver against his ribs. 

“You work here?” Hank asks, admittedly distracted by the impeccable tailoring of Connor’s dress shirt. 

Connor laughs. Again, that bright sound. “God, no.” And with a knowing smile, “I just know who to ask.”

Hank clicks the door shut behind him. Hank’s seduced people before. He’s done the dinners and the gifts. The sex. But he’s never felt anything like this - this tight magnetic pull of two bodies. 

Before he knows it, Connor is in his arms and they are kissing, Connor’s hands are in Hank’s hair, beneath his jacket. Hank grasps at Connor waist - lithe, small beneath his large hands - presses his hands against Connor’s chest. Connor moans into his mouth and the sound, low and rough, goes straight to Hank’s dick. 

“This is so dangerous.” Hank murmurs, speaking the words against Connor’s lips. He doesn’t dare let him go too far.

“Yes,” Connor’s eyes are blown dark. “If we got caught...” The implication hangs in the air.

“Do you want to stop?” Hank asks. “Walk out? Forget this?”

Connor’s answer is exactly what Hank had hoped for.

“Fuck no.”

And his hand finds the back of Hank’s neck, kissing him again, hard enough to bruise. Hank would like nothing better than to take Connor apart, slow and methodical, hear him moan and gasp and shout Hank’s name. A fumble in a stranger’s office is much less than either of them deserve. 

Hank repositions them both so Connor’s back is against the wall, Hank’s arms on either side of him. His head falls back, taking in the entirety of Hank’s frame above him. He wonders what his hands would look like splayed over the small of Connor’s back. 

“Hank...” Connor gasps. It’s the first time that Hank’s heard Connor say his name, but has a feeling - a feeling that jolts sharply to his gut - that it’s not the first time that his name has fallen, breathy and desperate, from between Connor’s lips. 

“You been thinking about this already, huh?” Hank asks. Connor’s response is a frantic nod, a sharp nip at the base of Hank’s neck.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t.” Connor replies. His hands have found the polished buckle of Hank’s belt. Hank’s throat tightens for a moment. God knows he’s been thinking about this. And it’s finally here, more beautiful and bizarre than any situation he could have ever imagined. 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” He pulls Connor’s collar down and bites down a dark bruise. 

From the desk behind them, there’s a sudden and insistent buzzing. Connor freezes.

“It’s my phone.” He gasps, his hands releasing Hank’s open belt.

“Leave it,” Hank mutters. He knows, sickeningly, that that’s not an option. 

“I can’t.” Connor confirms his suspicions and Hank steps to one side so that he can pass, pulling the phone from his jacket pocket.

His voice his tense as he responds to the person on the other end of the line. “I’m in the main hall. Yes. Yes. Give me a second.”

Connor shrugs his jacket back on. “I have to go. It’s-“ he falters. No names, no information. “The person I came with. We’re... meant to be-" he shakes his head. “Definitely not doing this.” 

He presses a final kiss to Hank’s lips. “I can’t not see you again,” Connor says. His eyes are bright and earnest and Hank is so, so happy that he feels that way. He writes down a number on a piece of paper and presses it into Hank’s hand.

“Do something sensible with it.” 

And he’s gone. 

Hank stands in the quiet office for a moment, turning the paper over and over in his hand. He’s been in danger before, it’s the nature of the profession, but this feels new, bright, exciting. 

The next day, Hank buys a burner phone. It’s nothing fancy, there’s no way that they can communicate properly by text or phone calls, they’re too easy to trace with the right knowledge. And Hank doesn’t doubt the knowledge of both sides of this strange affair. He shouldn't do it. He should burn the phone number and walk away from the fire while he's still in one piece. He should forget Connor Stern and the warmth of his mouth, the desperation of his hands at Hank's belt. 

But he can't. He texts the number - a simple message, the name of a motel just outside of the city where Hank has contacts. 

"Tell them who you're looking for," he adds, a precaution in case anyone were to read the message. The place isn't nice, nothing like the luxury that Hank wishes he could offer Connor. Hell, the sort of thing that both of them are probably used to. The room is small and simple, a bed and a bathroom. 

All Hank needs to finally get his hands all over this man. Connor arrives late in the evening in an unmarked cab. As soon as the door shuts behind them, he falls into Hank's arms, pressing desperate kisses to every inch of Hank that he can reach: his neck, his forehead, the backs of his wrists. 

"This is crazy," he says, over and over. "We're crazy."

And as he finally gets on his knees before Hank, lying his warm cheek against the skin of Hank's thigh - "How did this happen?"

Hank cards a hand through Connor's hair. "I don't know," he replies. "I don't know."

They spend the night together. They don’t sleep. Hank sucks livid bruises into the insides of Connor’s thighs, grips his hips so hard that he knows he’ll be able to feel it for the next week. And god, if that’s isn’t a thought. Connor sitting in his meetings, memories of Hank’s hands - his rival’s hands - all over every inch of his skin. His mouth, his teeth. 

“Say my name,” he growls, as he presses three fingers deep into Connor. 

Connor moans around his name, one syllable stretched out into many, desperate and breathy. God, he’s perfect. In that moment, fleeting in the grand scheme of things, Hank feels like the luckiest man alive. 

But the feeling disappears with the rising of the sun. It has to. The fact of what they’ve done dawns on them alongside the day. In their city, in this war, people have been killed for less than this. Far less. Fraternisation with the enemy would be seen as the ultimate betrayal, for who knows what dark secrets could have been shared beneath the sheets and the cover of night? Hank doesn’t know about Connor’s gang, but Fowler would have Hank shot if he ever found out. Fuck. He’d probably get Hank to do the deed himself. 

“Did we fuck up?” Connor asks, staring out over the parking lot. He’s wearing a pair of dark slacks, nothing else. His back is very pale.

“Maybe.”

“Do you want to fuck up again?”

In spite of himself, the seriousness of it all, Hank smiles. “Oh, absolutely.”

So they do. Hank keeps the burner phone, but they have to keep contact to a minimum outside of their trysts in various hotels. Hank thinks of an array of new pseudonyms to give to hotel clerks, ones that only Connor knows.

It’s their secret, nestled golden beside Hank’s heart. They’re careful, of course. They always meet on neutral ground, never anywhere that someone they know might expect to spot them. They always arrive separately and leave separately. 

They don’t meet often - a fact which begins to gnaw away at Hank as the weeks pass. And it hurts Connor too. Every time they part, Connor clings a little harder to Hank. But he clenches his jaw tight, gives Hank a final kiss, and leaves. He has work to do elsewhere. 

At the beginning, Hank wondered whether their relationship was purely physical, lust at first sight. 

But as he gets to know Connor better, he starts to fear that this might not be the case. Beneath his cold exterior and well practised facade, Connor has a gentle sadness to him. Incredibly smart and a little closed off, Hank wonders often what could have driven him into a life of crime. He speaks a little about his brother, although not about the rest of his family. In passing one day, Hank mentions that he likes jazz music. Connor’s face lights up.

“You do?”

“Yeah,” his hand is wrapped in Connor’s hair. “Ever since I was a kid.”

“Not many kids like jazz.”

“Must’ve been preempting a life in the mob, huh?”

Connor grins. His head is resting on Hank’s chest.

“I like jazz, too,” he says, one hand drawing lazy circles against Hank’s collarbone.

“I’ve got a good collection at home. If you ever wanted to... see it?” It’s an incredibly dangerous proposition - and Hank knows it. Connor looks up at him, his face suddenly seeming very young beneath his mop of brown curls.

“You mean that?”

“We’d have to be careful.”

Connor’s look turns a little withering, as if to say: well, obviously. Hank shakes his head. “Forget I said anything. Too dangerous.”

Connor shakes his head. “No. I’d like to. I’d like to see your house, Hank.”

As much as it sounds like a phenomenally bad idea to invite a member of a rival gang into his own home... Hank strokes a curl off Connor’s forehead.

“Okay.”

Hank leaves Connor a card with his address on it - along with instructions to put the information somewhere safe and then burn the original. Connor nods. He’s smart - far smarter than Hank, he’s come to realise - so he’ll know what to do with the information. 

One evening, Hank is with Fowler, discussing their latest racket over a long-nursed glass of whisky. His latest burner phone, consistently kept hidden in his inside pocket, buzzes. Hank doesn’t have to check it to know that it’s Connor. When he reads the text later, away from anyone else’s eyes, it reads just one word.

_Tonight._

Hank takes a deep breath, his nerves bright and burning. Connor arrives at his door just before midnight. He seems surprised at the location, a little suburb on the banks of the Detroit. It’s where Hank has lived most of his adult life, choosing to furnish the inside finely, rather than moving to a bigger place.

Besides, it suits him. When he opens the door to Connor, music is already playing low on the stereo. It curls around Hank and into the street outside.

“Hello.” Connor seems scared. Hank is scared too. This whole thing is stepping over into new territory, far removed from anonymous motel rooms. 

“Come in.” Hank steps aside and Connor moves over the threshold. 

“Would you like a drink?” Hank asks, and Connor nods: please. They’ve never felt nervous around each other before, on neutral ground they are fair game for each other’s desires, but here? It’s a different story. 

As Hank mixes the drinks, Connor drifts over to Hank’s collection of records. That’s why he’s here, after all. He considers a few thoughtfully, pulling them off the shelves and reading the back of the sleeves.

Hank considers him, a glass in each hand. “Quite a collection,” Connor sounds impressed.

“Been collecting a long time,” Hank says. Connor grins, reaches up to brush a strand of Hank’s silver hair behind his ear.

“Oh. Not that long, surely.” He takes one of the glasses, but he doesn’t drink; he places it on the side. 

“Can I put this one on?” He asks, pulling out a record and showing Hank the front.

It’s not one Hank plays often by himself. Too romantic, too sentimental. Probably perfect for the weight of this whole situation then.

“Sure.” Connor slides the needle down onto the vinyl. As the opening refrain plays, they stare at each other, eyes locked. Crystal blue on golden brown. Connor is not dressed up like he usually is, instead opting for dark jeans and a button down. He looks young, and almost vulnerable, as though the danger in him becomes nothing. 

“Will you dance with me?” Hank asks. It seems like the right question.

Connor comes close, so close that Hank can smell the woody notes of his cologne. He rests his hands against Hank’s chest, and then his head. 

“It’s not fair, is it?” Connor asks. Maybe he imagines it, but Hank thinks his voice sounds thick, his throat choked.

Hank’s hand cups the back of Connor’s neck. “No. Not really.”

The song continues on the stereo.

_Beside the garden wall,_  
When stars are bright,  
You are in my arms. 

The moment is perfect, crisp, bright around the edges like something stolen from someone else’s memory. Hank lifts Connor’s face to kiss it. 

There is a knock at the door. 

Connor’s head jerks back. Hank’s sure that if his life is anything like Hank’s own, he’s dealt with perilous situations with the calmest and most collected attitude. But now? He looks terrified, his eyes wide. 

“Who is it?” he whispers.

Hank shakes his head. “You have to hide.” It feels comical, like something from a farce, pushing Connor down the hall and towards his bedroom. The hammering of his heartbeat doesn’t feel particularly comical, though. “Just. Be quiet.”

Connor nods and shuts the bedroom door behind him. Hank takes a deep breath, steels himself, and opens the front door.

As if all his worst fears were made true in one fell swoop, it’s Fowler, standing on his doorstep. Hank tries to arrange his features into something like pleasant surprise, against the terror that rolls inside. 

“Boss.” Hank says, and he’s glad to find that his voice comes out smooth and unbroken. “Everything okay?”

“Yes.” Hank can tell from his curtness that this is not the case. He steps into Hank’s house without being asked. Men like Fowler don’t need to ask for permission. Hank has known Jeffrey Fowler for a long time, ever since they started running short cons in the city centre. Over twenty years ago now. Hank can tell when he’s pissed off and when he’s suspicious. When someone is about to get an ice cold talking to. Hank’s never had the misfortune to be on the receiving end of one of these talks, but there’s a first time for everything. So whether it’s the fact that he’s absolutely guilty, or that he can read Fowler well... Hank’s not quite sure yet. 

“It’s late, boss, is-" But Fowler raises a hand, stops him in his tracks.

“How are you, Hank?” He asks. He doesn’t take a seat. Maybe he’s not planning to stay very long.

“Can’t complain.” Hank swallows. Fowler’s eyes narrow. 

“You’re good at this job.” Fowler says, casting his gaze around the living room. Record playing low. Two whisky glasses. “You’ve always been loyal to me, to our business. Always.”

The words hit Hank hard. Is he throwing his life away, carrying on with Connor like this? 

“But over these past few weeks...” Fowler’s eyes stop roaming the room and lock onto Hank’s. They are dark, their intention impenetrable. “Something’s changed.”

“Nothing has-"

“It wasn’t a question.” Fowler’s voice is dangerously calm. “You’re a loyal man,” he continues. “I’ve known your loyalty for many, many years. Whatever it is, if it compromises your loyalty to me in any way, it has to stop.”

Hank nods, knowing there is no point in arguing. 

“I’m a decent man,” Fowler says. Hank’s not sure if decent is the right word. He doesn’t say that. “And I’m not going to ask what it is that has changed. I will give you the benefit of a second chance. This time.”

Hank nods again. His insides are clenching like Fowler has put his hand into his gut and twisted his intestines right around his fingers. He’s a fool, a fucking idiot. How could he ever compromise his years of loyalty for something so uncertain? So unknown? There are never second chances with a man like Fowler. Hank knows he’s being thrown a lifeline. Literally. 

“Is that all understood?” Fowler asks. In just two minutes he’s managed to bring the whole delicate structure of Hank’s life crashing down around his ears. 

“Understood, boss.” Hank says. It has to be this way. He dug his grave long ago, a bed laid with uncompromising loyalty that he can’t free himself from. Not without losing everything he’s ever known, everything that’s made him the man he is. The door closes behind Fowler, and Hank is left listening to the sound of his car driving away, melancholy saxophone making him want to tear the vinyl right off its turntable.

A minute passes. Hank hears the soft click of his bedroom door as Connor exits. 

“Hank?” Connor’s voice is quiet, his face has a pale sheen in the low light. 

“You have to go.” Hank says. He can’t do this anymore. The loyalty that he’s given Fowler, everyone else who relies on him, has to matter more than whatever brevity he‘s had with Connor. “I’m sorry.”

Connor’s face falls into such a wounded expression that for the briefest second, Hank almost retracts his words. But he gathers himself, expertly, face becoming that clear, impassive mask once more. 

Hank sees the light shut off in his eyes. 

“Fine.” The word is hard, and as sharp as a knife blade. “I’ll go.”

Hank knows Fowler will probably be waiting, just to see that Hank has completed the task asked of him. That he hasn’t kept Connor grasped close to his chest. Like he wishes he could do. 

“Goodbye, Hank.”

Days pass. They turn, with fresh snowfall, into weeks. Detroit is dark and icy, the streets grey with trodden snow. 

Hank feels each day weigh heavy on his back. Old thoughts begin to reappear in his mind, black scum floating to the surface. He throws himself into his work, determined that his loyalty be recognised tenfold. If he can’t have Connor then he’s got to have this. He won’t be left with nothing. 

Fowler calls him up early one morning saying that there is a business downtown that has missed numerous protection payments. They need someone to go and check it out, throw their muscle around. It’s grunt work really, but Hank knows his loyalty is still being tested.

He agrees. Hank calls a few of his associates to go with him. The bar is dingy, the floor still sticky from the previous night. There are no lights on and the weak light from the windows leaks in yellow and sickly. 

“Anyone here?” Hank calls out. His hand rests on the butt of his gun, cool against his side. There’s a clatter from a back room and man exits. He’s a little younger than Hank, tired looking, his eyes stern. 

Adrenaline rushes over all of Hank’s caution. 

“You Perkins?” Hank asks. His voice is very sharp in the room’s muffled quiet. The man nods, his face still. 

“Did Fowler send you?” Perkins asks. 

Hank’s mouth curls into a cruel grin. “You’re smart. Saving me some of the easy questions.”

“We’re not going to pay.” Perkins mutters.

Something isn’t right. Hank’s done jobs like this before, years ago mostly, and his presence was always met with tears, anguished faces, strangled promises of payment. 

Hank frowns. “That’s not really your choice to make.”

Perkins shakes his head.

“We won’t pay.” 

Hank takes a step forward, draws his gun slowly from his pocket. 

“That’s not an option.” His voice is cruel and cold.

Perkins smiles. From behind Hank, there’s a scuffle, a click, a sharp crack that echoes through the room. The sound slices through him. Sharp, burning, a blaze of fire against his lower back. He feels his gun fall out of his hand, but he’s deaf to the heavy crack that he knows must sound as it hits the floor. Presses his hand against himself, finds the white of his shirt wet and warm and red with his blood.

He’s been shot. With the realisation comes pain, flooding through him. As he collapses against the bar, the last thing that he sees in his mind's eye is not his loyalty to Fowler nor his own disappointment, anger at having failed his task.

It’s a pair of golden brown eyes. 

The next thing he knows is white. White sky, through a white window. Crisp bedsheets. The sound of machinery beeping, monitoring his lungs, his heart. So he’s alive.

Well, that’s something. 

Hank lies very still for what feels like a long time, listening to the sounds of the building around him. He remembers the crack of a gunshot, searing pain. There’s a large dressing covering most of his left side, a dull ache that carries right through into his legs and chest. He remembers. He remembers the dark wood of the bar coming up to meet him, seeing Connor’s face burning bright in his memory like a last thought to cling on to. 

A nurse enters his room. “Mr Anderson, how are you feeling?”

It’s a stupid question, all things considered. Hank heaves himself up onto his elbows as best he can.

“I need to make a phone call,” he says. 

“You need to rest at the moment. I can ring a next of kin for you if you’d like.”

“I need to make a phone call,” he repeats, voice hard. 

The nurse’s eyes widen. “There’s a landline down the hall, I don’t know if-" but Hank’s already swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Okay, okay.”

With great difficulty, teeth gritted around the pain, Hank gets himself down the hall. He feels distinctly like he might pass out. 

“Just. Get me a chair or something, would you?” The nurse leaves, evidently against better judgement, but knowing that any fight against Hank would be a losing one. Hank’s has a number of phone numbers memorised for situations exactly like this one. Fowler, various associates. But in the past months, he’s added one new number to that collection - and that’s the one that his fingers tap out, shaking. The line beeps a few times and there’s a click of the receiver.

“Hello?” The voice is uncertain and achingly familiar.

“Connor?”

A pause, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

“Hank?”

“Hi.” Hank’s words sound weak in his own head. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Why are you calling?” Connor’s voice is hard.

“I- I needed to speak to you.” That’s the simplest truth of it. He couldn’t imagine hearing anyone else’s voice on the end of the line. 

“You shouldn’t be calling me, it’s too dangerous-"

“I’m in hospital. I got shot.” 

“Oh.” Connor falters. “Oh god.”

“Yeah.” Hank manages a weak laugh. “Are you okay? No. I’m sorry - that’s a fucking stupid question.”

“Right.” 

There’s a long silence, in which Hank can hear Connor’s breathing on the other end of the line.

“Can I come and see you?” Connor asks. He’s tentative, as if he expects Hank to shut him down. 

“Yes.” Hank doesn’t care if it’s dangerous. He’s known danger and he’s known a life without Connor. He knows which one he’d rather have. “Yes.”

Hank gives Connor the details. “I’ll see you soon.”

Hank spends a lot of the next days in and out of consciousness, drifting through worlds that are part dream, part reality. When he wakes, the sky is dark outside and he can sense another person in the room.

"Hank." It's Connor. Hank would know that voice at the end of the earth. 

"Connor." His opens his eyes blearily, and sure enough, Connor is sitting at the end of his bed. "You're here."

"I'm here." Connor moves, tentatively, places a hand over Hank's own. "I'm here."

They sit in silence for a moment, taking each other in. 

"What made you call me?" Connor asks, his fingers tracing the back of Hank's hand. 

"I saw you." Hank explains, but Connor frowns, confused. "After I got shot. I didn't think about Fowler or anyone else. I thought about you. If I died, I'd never see you again."

Hank shakes his head. Connor looks wan and shaken in the artificial light. "I couldn't bear it."

Connor shifts a little closer to him along the bed, his hand on his upper arm. "Thank you for calling."

"I think-" Hank swallows tightly around what he's about to say. "I think I've fallen in love with you."

"You think?" Connor grins, sly and sweet, and Hank nods. 

Connor leans close. "I know I've fallen in love with you."

Their lips meet for the first time in a month, and Hank's whole being feels transported, light and full of the press of Connor's mouth, the weight of his hands on his shoulders. The knowledge that he loves and is loved in return. 

"What are we going to do about this, huh?" Hank asks, his face an inch away from Connor's.

Connor tilts his head to one side. "Do you trust me?"

Hank does, implicitly, without question. He nods.

"Leave it with me."

So Connor returns a week later, again under the cover of darkness, with a thick brown envelope rucked up underneath his coat. It contains two passports, a stack of accompanying documents, all of which Connor lays out on the bed at Hank's feet. 

"Where did you get all this?" Hank asks, disbelieving. 

Connor shrugs. "Niles helped." He explains a little about his brother's network of underground connections, his general dislike of the mob, his undying love for his older brother. 

"Come with me." Connor waits, his face expectant. "You can say no. I promise you can say no."

Hank thinks about it. A new life. Connor by his side, waking up every day beside him. No longer taking other people's lives apart to construct his own. 

He nods. 

Side by side, they leave Detroit behind. Hank knows that Fowler's men will be looking for him, and he doesn't doubt that Jericho will be looking for Connor.

Their new identities afford them some cover, cash transactions hide their paper trail. 

As he looks at Connor in the passenger seat of their car, sunlight striking gold in the curls of his hair, he knows that he made the right decision. All danger aside, waking up with his arm slung around the dip in Connor's narrow waist, he knows he wouldn't have it any other way. 

All of this. It was meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally posted as a thread on twitter. come and yell at me over there [@andpersephone](https://twitter.com/andpersephone)


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